﻿The last thingI ate at your tablewere figsbecauseyour walletwas bareThey were the best figsin all the worldEvery dayI would wait for your lettersfor weeksfor yearsfor a decadeOne day I grew upand wrote a letter to you"Do you still have the fig tree, daddy?"They buried you thereclose to that treeThey are still the best figsin all the world﻿(c)2015SeleneSkye

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~Each day is a new poem playing its ink through the fingerprints left in a trail of blue dreams from UnderLand to eager keys waiting in an almost sensual panic to be pressed full of another story, another poem, le poesie de jour~ Selene